I Am the Serpent
by Tabari Avaren
Summary: Rated R for language and sexual themes. A series of ficlets from Draco Malfoy's perspective, set chronologically during his seventh year. Not finished, but as finished as it will ever be.
1. I Am the Serpent

**Disclaimer:** I neither own nor claim the characters contained within J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter _series. This is purely a fan extrapolation based off of her works, and I am making no money off of this. Everything you recognize is hers, the rest is from my own imagination.

**I Am the Serpent**

According to Plutarch, there once was a king in Greece named Draco. He ruled over Athens so harshly that laws perceived as cruel in this day in age are called draconian. Plutarch wrote, "And Draco himself, they say, being asked why he made death the penalty for most offences, replied that in his opinion the lesser ones deserved it, and for the greater ones no heavier penalty could be found."

Ah, well. I suppose I could have done worse for a name – I should be glad that the Dark Lord never read Machiavelli.

I was brought to the Dark Lord only three days after my birth, when my mother, Narcissa, had sufficiently recovered. My father was the favored one in those days, the most talented, cleverest, cruelest of the younger Death Eaters; he was in every way a perfect servant – when kept in his place. The Dark Lord took an active interest in the youngest Malfoy, so I have been told, as a way to keep the older ones in check.

I was brought before him for naming. My mother had wanted to call me Alexander – a conqueror – but He Who Must Not Be Named preferred Draco. He called me "Lucius's little serpent" for some time, so I hear, before his fall. It is a good name. A strong name. A name worthy of the followers of Slytherin's heir. I am his dragon, his serpent; when I come of age, I shall be a better one than ever my father was.

Lucius is clever, but he is too clever. He cannot be trusted, and the Dark Lord knows it. I only hope his eventual fall from grace happens when I myself have become a trusted follower of the Dark Lord. Slytherins all have ambition, but some manage to keep it in check better than others – and my father, all aristocrat, has no sense. He sides with the Dark Lord for the power and the perks, but there is no personal loyalty – and the Dark Lord knows. My father did not raise a finger to aid his fallen master in the between years, for he is concerned only with his own skin.

So am I, of course, but my skin will be safe under the protection of the Dark Lord. I will obey him in everything. I will be his trusted servant, his right hand – his dragon, the one he will send forth to execute the new order, the harsh order that shall follow our victory. When my father falls I shall rise, more powerful and more trusted than ever he was, to enforce the Dark Lord's will.


	2. And the Women's Cries

**And the Women's Cries**

I know what my father does. He thinks that I and my mother do not know. He is a fool.

My father is a cruel man. So am I, I think. My father takes pleasure in the pain of others; he is sadistic. The wizarding world would term him so, for the enjoyment he has in the torture of muggles. Muggle women especially. Are they right? Perhaps. Perhaps he is as sick a bastard as many believe; but he is my father. From his loins was I sprung, and the resemblances between us are more than just superficial. Though I do not always like to admit it, I have found excitement in my father's perversions, the ones he is at great pains to hide from my mother.

Well. She must have known when she married him – the Malfoys are famous in that aspect. She would have power, wealth, and children of the purest blood (how pleased her parents were), but she would also have those pesky little infidelities, those long nights knowing my father was satiating his lusts with some muggle filth.

My father is attracted to helplessness. He has power, and wealth, but it is hard to subjugate a woman who can turn your testes into yogurt with the flick of her wand. My father likes being obeyed. He enjoys fear. He is a Death Eater. My father likes his women to be subservient and crawling, but of course my mother was of the best families; he could not satisfy his … kinks with her.

When my father dons his mask he does so with pleasure. A little fear, of course – the Dark Lord's missions are never to be taken lightly – but he is allowed to gorge himself on helpless muggle women before they are tortured and killed; it is good for morale among the death eaters, if they can play with their victims before disposing of them.

I am my father's son. I, too, have been raised as a prince, waited on by servants, treated carefully by my peers, respected by the pureblood families for the generation of wizards I will one day help give rise to. It is hard, in this environment, not to get a taste for power. There is a little of the monster in me, too. I am not stupid. I know what I am – cruel, powerhungry, self-serving. I have my lusts, as do most adolescent males; it is, of course, only natural. However, the girls at Hogwarts are never quite so eager to spread their legs as a boy my age might wish. I could, of course, turn to rather unsophisticated methods of relief; Crabbe and Goyle will depend on it most of their adult lives. I, however, am not used to being denied anything. I want sex. Muggle women are somehow more appetizing than before. Mudblood scum too – none of them could resist the power of a pureblood slytherin if it came to it.

But, while at Hogwarts, opportunities are … limited. It is not as if I have the access my father has. I will remain a monster only in my private lusts for a few months longer, until I come of age and inherit the serpent's mark. Then I shall hear the muggles' screams and the women's cries.


	3. Mudblood Scum

**Mudblood Scum**

When I was thirteen years old, my father sat me down and had a "talk." It is almost as ludicrous as it sounds; but then, even Malfoys must learn the facts of life. Of course, I already knew most of it – lock six boys in a dormitory together and they soon learn the wonders of masturbation – but my father gave his chat an additional spin.

"Boys will be boys," he said, "and will think with their pants rather than their head. There may be some very pretty muggleborn girls out there, but remember – if you do bed them, make sure you are in no way responsible to them. It's all very well to appreciate the feminine physique of your lowbred compatriots, but for God's sake don't end up with a half-blood whelp calling you Daddy." He paused here, and smirked. "So, in other words, if you have to fuck the mudblood scum, do take precautions."

Yes, my father warned me to practice safe sex. It sounds so marvelously preposterous. But then, as he said, even pureblood wizarding sons of the highest repute will, from time to time, think with their dicks.

For example, Granger has a great ass, but I have sense enough to keep my peter in my pocket with her; Potter and the Weasel are always so damned protective of her – but of course, Weasley would just love to be a blood traitor with that one, not that I blame him, given Granger's very, very nice ass.

Slytherin girls are a different story. While it might be fun to have a few hours alone with Granger (though hopefully not with her wand; for a mudblood, she throws a good jinx), the same tricks cannot be played with girls from nice families. The Parkinsons, for example, would be most unhappy should I impregnate their daughter. How glad I am that Nott deigned to show us the spermicitis charm; it made convincing Pansy to enter into coitus with me so much the easier. Not that I want to spend all that much time with Pansy.

There are, unfortunately, not that many interesting girls in my year. There's Pansy Parkinson; there's Millicent Bullstrode – ha!; there's Caroline Mandler, but she's so obviously mooning after Nott; there's Regina Avery, but her father's in disgrace and she's fat as a cow; there's Sonia Dolohov, but her father is in favor with the Dark Lord, and she's such a prude my chances with her are nil if it's not her wedding night.

Mudblood scum, therefore, is suddenly so much more attractive.


	4. Holiday Spirit

**Holiday Spirit**

It was the weekend before Christmas Holidays started, and the teachers had practically shoved us out the door to Hogsmeade. There was snow on the ground, of course. Scotland in winter is damned near arctic. The village had been decorated with wreaths of holly and ivy, mistletoe in all the doorways and great pine trees from the Forest covered in baubles were in all the windows. Christmas.

There aren't many wizarding families who adhere to Christianity, or to any other religion; mudbloods and bloodtraitors with half-blood children do, sometimes, and there are one or two pureblood families – the Prewetts, what's left of them, and the Bones – who actually believe in it. None of the deatheater families, though. The Dark Lord does not like his followers to have any Lord greater than himself.

It is an odd religion – a religion for slaves. Their prophet was always prattling on about peace and love and obedience. The entire Christmas holiday is about goodwill to your fellow men. Christmas is a holiday for Hufflepuffs and cowards, those too fearful or too stupid to fight on their own behalf. It will soon be a dying religion, when the Dark Lord ascends to his true power.

Needless to say, I did not have much of the holiday spirit when walking back from Hogsmeade that day. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, were with me. They were discussing, mostly in grunts, an encounter they had had with a second year Ravenclaw, who had apparently shown them some cheek. They were plotting a gruesome torture for him, which involved much pounding, stomping, and flattening, but rather less use of wands than one would expect from a seventh-year wizard. Occasionally, they would ask my opinion on some small matter (should they punch him first, or would it be more efficacious to pinion him to a wall?), and I would reply with a monosyllabic yes or no. Crabbe and Goyle are never very interesting.

The snow was glistening white, save for the path trampled by students going to and from the castle. The trees of the Forbidden Forest looked less hostile in the afternoon sun, and it was hard to believe the darkness in that wood when one saw the snow shining on its branches. Still, I shivered when I looked at that forest, and not just from the cold. I am no coward, but I do not love danger. I have too much to do in this life to throw it away with needless risk, and that risk, during my years at Hogwarts, somehow seems to have concentrated itself in the Forest.

The half-breed oaf, Hagrid, was dragging in a pine tree for the Great Hall when we arrived back at the castle. It was a splendid tree, I had to admit, but my stomach felt sour as I thought of what it represented. I do not like Christmas.


	5. Fragility

Fragility 

Crabbe and Goyle were in the hospital wing. We had just had Herbology with the Ravenclaws, and the two idiots had gotten on the bad side of a Venomous Tentacula. Herbology was never friendly to those two.

It was our free period. I had considered going to the library – potions work for Snape – but I saw Granger heading off with Weasley out of the corner of my eye, and decided that it just wasn't worth a confrontation without backup. I headed out to the grounds.

Hogwarts in February is bitterly cold, wet, and miserable, but today the rain and sleet had let up a bit. The earth was soggy, but it hadn't been churned to mud, and it was good to stretch my legs.

Then I saw the cat. It was prowling next to a tree by the lake, its head low, trying to avoid being seen. I walked slowly towards it, carefully. I had had a cat once, many years ago, and I knew how shy they could be. One has to be careful with cats; they are skittish, and devilishly sensitive to noise.

The cat spotted me, and turned to face me, its eyes wide, back arched, hair standing on end. I did not advance, but crouched slowly and extended my hand, trying to look non-threatening. I sat there, waiting for it to relax.

Perhaps the cat was lost, rather than wild; it came closer to me, slowly at first, and then with more confidence. It stopped when it was a few feet away from me, and I slowly reached my arm out towards it. It backed up, and then, tentatively, sniffed my hand. I stroked it with one finger, and then it began to purr. It rubbed against my legs, butted my knees, and generally expressed its pleasure at being around a human being.

It was a small thing, a calico, a female. Its bones were so fine and fragile, I thought it might break in two. Gently, I picked up the cat, and held it against my chest, feeling the warmth of its breath, I stroked it, gently. And then, ever so gently, I began to squeeze it closer. So thin, so fine – it did not struggle at first, and then, when it felt the breath start to go out of it, it could not fight, for I was too large and strong. It tried to thrash, but I held it too close, and its eyes were the only thing that were wild, huge with pain and fear.

And, slowly, I began to feel nauseous at what I was doing. I relaxed slightly, held it close to me, but gently, stroked it. It began to relax, its claws – I had not even noticed them – retracting out of my robes. I placed it down, and watched it run towards the lake again. When it was at the water's edge, it stopped, and stared at me, before darting into the bushes.

I looked after it, and then walked away, my stomach still churning at how close I had come to killing that fragility.


End file.
